


Something Like Hope

by petals42_tumblr (rosepetals42)



Series: Sterek Tumblr Fics [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Character Death, Derek does not hire Stiles in this fic, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Prostitute!Stiles, character death mention, deputy!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 14:17:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12559236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosepetals42/pseuds/petals42_tumblr
Summary: As always, Stiles’ voice is a low purr, entirely sarcastic, and Derek knows before he even turns toward the sound that Stiles will be grinning at him.He is.He’s wearing dark skinny jeans today and, although they have what Derek has to assume to be “fashionable” holes down the front and are tight enough to look almost dangerous, they are at least warmer than the booty shorts Derek usually finds him in. Of course the thin, white, plunging v-neck t-shirt he’s wearing probably does nothing against the New York December chill.“Stiles,” Derek grunts, reaching for the cuffs he keeps at his back pocket. “Seriously. You know I’m a cop.”Or: Derek is a cop, Stiles is a prostitue, they come together to save some kids.Originally posted for sterek secret santa





	Something Like Hope

> Originally for sterek secret santa,[found here](http://stereksecretsanta.tumblr.com/post/135864937452/merry-christmas-fantasticalstiles)

It’s late when Derek finally decides to leave the precinct for the night. His back hurts from leaning over paperwork and it hasn’t been a great day. He has two murders still unsolved, a B&E where the victims calls him daily to ask if he’s made any progress (he hasn’t), and to top it all off, the station’s coffee maker broke so he’s not entirely sure how he is still standing.

He’s tired, tired and annoyed, and he is ready to book the fifteen minute walk back to his apartment and be done with the day.

So, of course, he’s only four minutes from the station when-

“Helloooo, gorgeous.”

As always, Stiles’ voice is a low purr, entirely sarcastic, and Derek knows before he even turns toward the sound that Stiles will be grinning at him.

He is.

He’s wearing dark skinny jeans today and, although they have what Derek has to assume to be “fashionable” holes down the front and are tight enough to look almost dangerous, they are at least warmer than the booty shorts Derek usually finds him in. Of course the thin, white, plunging v-neck t-shirt he’s wearing probably does nothing against the New York December chill.

“Stiles,” Derek grunts, reaching for the cuffs he keeps at his back pocket. “Seriously. You  _know_  I’m a cop.”

The first time they’d met, Stiles clearly hadn’t. Derek had managed to keep calm until Stiles finished batting his eyelashes and given him an price for the night.Then he’d arrested him.

“Woah, woah,” Stiles says, holding up his hands and glancing at the cuffs Derek produces. “It was just a joke. Hold up. I’m not even trying anything.”

Derek glares. He highly doubts that. Stiles is one of the most well known prostitutes in the precinct. He’s nineteen, so not legally a runaway and he’s  _always_  trying something. Most of the cops don’t even bother arresting him anymore. They know he’ll just get out and Stiles oscillates between graphically hilarious and bitingly sarcastic and Derek has  _watched_  him flirt with other officers, just to be allowed to fade back into the night when he decided he was done with his fun.

Not Derek though.

Derek arrests him every time he sees him. He doesn’t think it’s funny and he doesn’t care if all the other officers tell him that there’s nothing he can do and that Stiles seems to actually enjoy his “chosen profession” and that he should just relax and accept that sometimes people have to play the hand they are dealt.

Derek can’t accept that. Maybe he can’t really do anything and maybe Stiles will always walk out of the station a mere twelve hours after he gets in and maybe he’ll never tell them  _any_ personal information about himself, but Derek is going to keep trying. And he’s going to get Stiles out of the cold as often as he can. Even if it’s only for a short time. Even if Stiles is an insufferable asshole.

It makes Stiles hate him. Every time Derek brings him in, Stiles comes in yelling about harassment or telling anyone who will listen that Derek only does it because he wants free services and he always stops short of filing an official complaint, but it’s never a pleasant experience.

“I haven’t been molested yet, if that’s what you mean,” Derek says. That’s usually what happens when he gets Stiles cornered. Stiles will argue for a bit, then rub up on Derek and ask if there is any way to change his mind, and then go back to arguing when Derek makes it clear that there really, really isn’t.

“Just trying to get you to admit you want me,” Stiles says, smirking. Derek reaches for him, and Stiles drops the grin. “Wait, seriously. I need your help.”

Derek pauses, confused. Stiles never needs his help. Stiles never needs anyone’s help.

“Can we talk?” Stiles asks, jerking his head back to the alley he popped out of. “Privately?”

Derek sighs. He’s tired, hungry, and he doesn’t want to deal with whatever weird trick Stiles is trying to pull this time.

Stiles must read the hesitation in his face.

“No funny business,” he says. “Promise. I just-”

His hands flutter for a moment before he crosses them across his chest and looks off to a spot behind Derek’s right ear.

“I just need to talk to you,” he continues. “You’re the one cop who still cares about stuff like this.”

Derek sighs. Nods. Follows when Stiles walks away.

Stiles seems to take an unnecessarily long time glancing around and Derek is about to tell him to hurry up, when Stiles is suddenly digging around in his back pocket. Judging from his squirming, it’s near impossible to keep  _anything_  in that pocket and Derek can’t help it- he still suspects some sort of prank-

But then, Stiles is holding out a piece of paper, hand quivering as it is exposed to the cold. Derek takes it, frowning down at the faded, messy handwriting.

It doesn’t appear to be much. A list of names and an address.

“So, there’s these kids,” Stiles says, rubbing his hands together. “Jay - Jaylen - and Crystal. Runaways. From what they’ve told me, their foster home wasn’t great so that’s why.”

“Okay,” Derek says, feeling his gut sink but nodding anyway. “I’ll get in touch with CPS and-”

“No,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Let me finish. They- the guy I work for picked them up. Promised them a place out of the cold and said they could make big money.”

Derek’s insides go cold. It must show on his face.

“Exactly,” Stiles says, nodding at him. “They’re only sixteen, Derek. Bran- the guy I work for is getting fake IDs made now - with that second set of names there. Once they have those… well, you know how it is, even if they do get caught, it will be too easy for them to claim they’re eighteen. And if no one checks carefully…”

He fades out. They both know what that will mean.

“The address is where they are staying for now,” Stiles continues. “Probably for at least the next few days.”

Derek is silent, considering. He’s pretty sure the address is technically in the next precinct over so he might have to make a few calls but-

“Derek?” Stiles interjects, clearing taking his silence for hesitation or doubt. “You- you’ll help, right? I mean, I promise this isn’t some weird cop-trap thing.”

Derek blinks. “I didn’t think it was,” he says, honestly. For all the trouble Stiles causes, Derek doesn’t actually think he would do something  _bad_. Not like this. Though he can’t help but point out: “Although, you’re the one always telling me that you participate in a honorable profession that should be a valid choice for those who enjoy getting paid to have a good time.”

Stiles snorts, looking at the ground. “Yeah, well. Forgive me if I don’t think homeless teenagers are really making a choice.”

His voice has gone dark and sad and when he twists his head to make eye contact with Derek again, he looks…  _vulnerable_. It’s jarring and something in Derek’s chest splinters and-

“Stiles,” he says. “Are you actually-”

He stops, not knowing how to frame it. Stiles’ ID says he’s nineteen now, but it’s Derek’s first year and he was being brought in back before Derek was a detective, according to his record and-

“Am now,” Stiles says, mouth twisting. “So, doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“Stiles, you should have-”

“Stop,” Stiles cuts in, waving a hand and then snatching it back to wrap around him quickly. “Just- let it go, man. It’s too late so just-”

“It’s  _not_  too late,” Derek growls. Stiles is only nineteen. He has his whole life ahead of him and he shouldn’t have to do this. It’s the argument he tries to give every time he has Stiles safely in a holding cell. Stiles usually starts smirking and flirting and talking about how much he loves his job whenever he tries. “You can still-”

“Still do what?” Stiles interrupts, angry. Derek blinks, surprised. He never gets this. He never gets anything out of Stiles, much less honest anger. It’s– “Get my GED and apply for colleges? Use all this as a great essay topic? Pretend that I’m not completely fucked up and that my dad and Scott and his mom aren’t-”

Stiles cuts himself off, breathing hard for a moment, visibly pulling himself in and Derek wants to tell him not to bother, wants to tell him to  _fight_  something even if that something is Derek but-

“Look, just… find the kids,” Stiles says, arms still curled around his chest. Derek thinks his lips are turning blue. “Okay? We done here?”

Derek’s hands tighten around his handcuffs and he  _wants_  to arrest him, to keep him safe for a night at least, but he really doesn’t have just cause tonight. Aside from his reputation, Stiles could be anyone tonight.

“Fine,” Derek growls, regretting this already. Then, softer: “You gonna find somewhere warm?”

Stiles grins at him, somehow looking up through his lashes even though they are almost of equal height.

“Why? You offering? You wanna help me warm up?”

It’s jarring, seeing the difference between Stiles now and Stiles thirty seconds ago but… well, Derek has been doing this a long time. He knows when to stop pushing.

“I’m saying it’s twenty degrees out and you’re not wearing a jacket,” Derek mumbles, rolling his eyes. It’s a relief to get back to their usual banter.

Stiles drops the smile and shrugs.

“I’ll manage,” he says, glancing up at the sky for a moment. He meets Derek’s eyes for a moment and he looks… older. Tired. Maybe as tired as Derek. “I always do.”

He’s gone before Derek can say anything.

*^*^*^

It takes a few days to get everything in order and track down where the teenagers are supposed to be and then Derek does look into the foster home they were previously at and spends his days hounding CPS to make sure they both go together to a new one and it’s been a little over a week and he’s feel light in a way that he only does when he feels he’s actually made a difference.

So he goes to find Stiles.

He’s being pretty blatant about looking for the kid. Because, probably, Stiles already knows that his tip was completely successful but Derek still wants to fill him in on the details. How he looked into the foster home so they would never have to go back there and how the kids were already regretting their decision when he arrived so they were grateful and that nothing had  _happened_  to them so they were fine. Well, they would be. Derek had promised to check in as often as he could.

He checks Stiles’ usual corners and alleys in the classier parts of town and then slowly makes his way into the more dingy sections, calling into memory the many, many places he’s arrested Stiles and he’s still in a pretty good mood.

It’s only when two hours of searching (on a Friday no less) reveal nothing that he starts to get worried. And then gets a little annoyed at himself for getting worried, because Stiles is probably just already… on a job and whatever glimpse of honesty Derek had witnessed was probably safely tucked away and it might be just as likely that Stiles is avoiding him.

He’s about to give up, telling himself that this is the last little alley he is going to peek down when-

“Hey, handsome. You lookin’ for a good time?”

Derek is so happy to hear Stiles’ voice that he doesn’t even really recognize that his voice is lower than usual, raspy almost and he turns to see Stiles moving away from the corner towards him and-

His heart stops.

So does Stiles when he gets close enough to see who it is.

“Fuck,” he says, shrinking back.

“Stiles,” Derek says, rushing forward. Stiles  _limps_  another step back.

And it is limping because Stiles… Stiles….

Stiles’ left eye is swollen completely shut, dried blood still along the outline. There’s another injury covering the bottom right side of his chin and a bruise that looks horribly like a handprint across his neck. There’s blood on his previously white v-neck and his right arm is curled along his side as if he doesn’t want to risk moving it and he’s definitely favoring his left leg and-

“What happened?” Derek demands. It’s not the first time he’s seen Stiles a little worked over, but this- this is too far. This is  _deliberate_. It’s- it’s-

“I fell,” Stiles grins as he says it.

“The truth, Stiles,“ Derek tries. He keeps his voice soft. “Please.”

Stiles stares at him for a beat, and Derek meets his eyes head on and hopes he doesn’t look like his usual angry self. Whatever Stiles sees has the smirk twisting into something less confident and more… resigned.

“Unfortunately,” Stiles starts, shrugging one shoulder and then wincing. “It seems that our dear friend Brandon may have figured out who tipped off the cops about his newest employees.”

Derek freezes.

“Stiles,” he starts, taking another step forward. “I promise I didn’t tell anyone. Even my captain doesn’t know how I got my information. I-”

“I know,” Stiles says, smiling at him a little while heading back towards the wall. Derek suspects he needs it to help him stand. “I knew you wouldn’t. Pretty sure he just figured it out. Don’t worry, Der-bear. It’s not your fault.”

The statement doesn’t make Derek feel any better. Not really.

“What are you even doing out here?” Derek says, waving a hand at Stiles’ face. He takes a breath. “You can’t work looking like  _this_.”

“I’ve figured that out,” Stiles admits, going to tip his head and then stopping to grimace halfway through. “Not even the ones who are into this are interested.”

Derek flinches and then refocuses.

“Let me help you get home at least.”

“That’s okay,” Stiles says, and now that he’s almost back to the wall, his words are slurring together in a way that has Derek concerned. “‘m fine. Just-”

He gasps as he leans back against the wall against, right hand still clutching his side, left dangling uselessly at his side in a way that doesn’t look natural.

“Stiles,” Derek says, trying for a voice of authority. “Let me take you home.”

Stiles laughs and looks up to focus on him.

“Dude, who do you think owned my shitty apartment?” He says it like Derek is a bit slow. Which… fair. Derek should have known that.

“Don’t worry though,” Stiles says, waving his right hand. “He’s pissed now, but he’ll come around eventually. I make him too much money for him to fire me for real.”

It’s horrifying. It’s horrifying that Stiles would go back to work for a man who did this to him and it’s horrifying that Stiles is going to be sleeping outside for god knows how long and it’s horrifying that he’s already kicked a few bottles out of the way as if he is going to sit down and curl up and sleep  _right here_.

“No,” Derek grunts, striding forward and halting Stiles’ downward motion with a gentle hand at his elbow.

“Dude, seriously?” Stiles groans. “You’re gonna arrest me  _now_? This really is bordering on harassment. Like actually.”

Despite his complaining, Stiles doesn’t put up a fight as Derek pulls him toward the mouth of the alley. Though, that’s probably because he can’t. He’s walking like an old man.

“I’m not arresting you, Stiles,” Derek says. “I’m taking you to my place for the night.”

Stiles does balk then, leaning back and hissing in pain when Derek doesn’t release him.

“No, no way,” Stiles says. “You can’t just  _kidnap_  me!”

“I’m not kidnapping you,” Derek replies, still moving forward. “You have a choice. My place. Or a hospital.”

“I do not need a hospital!” Stiles says, voice rising. “It’s just a few bangs and bruises.”

“My apartment then,” Derek says, nodding.

“Derek.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, going for the same slightly annoyed, exasperated tone. “You’re not staying out here tonight. So. My apartment or a hospital. You pick.”

Stiles sighs. Glares. Rolls his eyes. Then,

“Your place,” he mumbles as if he is the one doing Derek a favor. “But I still say this is kidnapping.”

“You can file a report if you want,” Derek says. “I know a detective.”

Stiles’ laugh is short and fades into a groan, but Derek counts it anyway.

*^*^*^

When Derek finally gets Stiles’ home, it rapidly becomes apparent that it is a lot more than a few “bangs and bruises.” He doesn’t complain when Derek takes him directly to the bathroom and sits him down on the toilet with strict instructions not to move, but he tries to resist when Derek tells him to take his shirt off and Derek would be more respectful of his privacy except he still hasn’t really seen Stiles use his left arm and the bruise on his chin had turned out to be a scrap that needed to be cleaned out so he had to check. Eventually, Stiles agrees.

It’s a struggle anyway. Stiles tries to do it himself, hissing between clenched teeth and cursing and still not quite using his left arm and Derek lets him struggle for a few minutes before stepping forward with scissors and simply cutting the shirt away.

“You owe me a shirt,” Stiles grunts as Derek works. “Two, actually as this one had sentimental value.”

“Fine,” Derek says. “I’ll buy you two shirts. If you stop whining, I’ll even make it-”

He stops talking. Because he has finished cutting away the stained white cotton and so Stiles’ chest is exposed and it is-

It is  _black_  in some areas. In fact his whole midsection is one big, black bruise like he has been kicked repeatedly and there’s a scrape along his left side and all around his left shoulder there is an array of bruises. He is also skinny- too skinny to be healthy, his ribs jutting out of his chest - but for now, it’s the shoulder that Derek focuses on.

“This was dislocated,” Derek says, voice flat. He skims his hand over it just to see if it’s put back in again. Stiles lets him. “We should get it checked out.”

“No need,” Stiles says, twisting his neck to look at it. “I popped it back in. It’s fine. Full range of motion and everything.” 

“Stiles, how could you-”

“Best friend’s mom is a E.R nurse,” Stiles says. “Don’t worry, I know.”

Derek opens his mouth to argue, to say that unless this nurse checked him out personally then this argument doesn’t count but-

“Was,” Stiles corrects abruptly, looking down at his shoulder and swallowing. “She  _was_ a nurse.”

He goes silent and Derek doesn’t have it in him to argue with him right now. Not when Stiles is soft and sad and  _tired_  and-

Derek cleans him up silently. He bandages the cuts and wipes neosporin over every bit of broken skin he can see and he hadn’t noticed that one of Stiles’ fingers was bent at an odd angle but he doesn’t panic when he finds it. Merely puts a splint on it and then leaves to bring back a pair of sweatpants, boxers, and an blue NYPD training zip-up hoodie he has lying around.

“I figure this way I won’t have to watch you struggle to pull something over your head,” he says by way of explanation. Stiles blinks his eyes open slowly. He’s been falling asleep this whole time. “Here, let’s bother with a shower tomorrow. The clothes are clean, I promise.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow and Derek simply holds out the clothes for him. He doesn’t care if Stiles wouldn’t care if they were dirty.  _He_  would. Stiles deserves clean clothes. He deserves a roof over his head. He deserves a better life. Stiles accepts them with something like a smile playing on the edges of his mouth.

“I’ll be outside,” Derek promises. “Holler if you need anything. Extra toothbrush is under the sink.”

Stiles nods and Derek feels like he’s hovering so he leaves even though he wants to help. He doesn’t say anything when Stiles takes almost twenty minutes to change.

He comes out looking too small for Derek’s baggy clothes, both arms carefully curled around himself and he shifts back and forth, for the first time seemingly at a loss for what to do until Derek rises from the couch and waves him over.

“I put fresh blankets on the bed,” Derek says. “I can take the couch.”

“No, no,” Stiles says. “Seriously, the couch is fine.”

“Stiles,” Derek tries. “Your whole body is one gigantic bruise. Take the bed.”

It’s no use, Stiles is already lowering himself onto the couch on the opposite side, wincing only a little.

“Too late,” Stiles declares. “I’m already down. You can’t make me get up again. Would be rude.”

Derek glares for a moment and then turns back to the TV. He’d put it on some random basketball game while Stiles was changing and he should probably turn it off and go to bed but…

He passes Stiles a blanket and twenty minutes slide by. Neither of them say anything and Derek keeps thinking that Stiles must be falling asleep, but when he looks over, Stiles is awake, chewing on his bottom lip.

“Stiles,” Derek starts because… well, because he wants to know. “What happened?”

There’s no doubt as to what he is actually asking about and he sort of assumes that Stiles will ignore him.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he watches as Stiles takes a breath and drum the fingers of his right hand against the blanket and-

“Car accident,” he says, not looking away from the screen. “My dad had just started dating my best friend’s mom and… we were going camping.”

Derek doesn’t dare say anything.

“Drunk driver,” Stiles says bitterly. “Like something out of a fucking ad campaign. Drunk driver kills the sheriff and a nurse and the lacrosse captain.”

He turns then and Derek doesn’t know how his mouth twists up into a cold half-smile when his eyes are so wet.

“Only one to make it was the useless, spastic kid.”

“Stiles,” Derek interjects. “That’s not true. You-”

“Didn’t know what to do,” Stiles talks over him, turning back to the screen. “Panicked I guess. Spent all my savings getting here, I figured New York City was the least like camping and California and-”

He stops and struggles and-

“Didn’t have a plan,” he admits. “Didn’t really care enough to get one either until– well, starving to death isn’t actually that fun and it turns out I hate the cold so… it didn’t really seem to matter, at first. Brandon found me and got me a fake ID and then it turns out I had the right look and I learned that guys actually want the happy, smirking, confident hooker over the depressed loser so…”

He glances at Derek.

“Easy enough to fake, really. Not harder than faking anything else.”

He falls into silence then and Derek scrambles to think of something to say. Something that won’t sound contrived or forced or hollow. Something that could make it better. Even though there’s no making it better. He knows that.

The stillness stretches and he senses more than sees Stiles start to sink into sleep and he still doesn’t know what to say.

“Stiles,” he says finally. He waits until Stiles glances over at him again. “I want you to stay.”

Stiles opens his mouth, probably to refuse so Derek continues.

“Here. For as long as you need,” Derek clarifies, probably needlessly. “Until you come up with a plan.”

“Derek,” Stiles starts.

“You’re stuck here until you’ve healed completely,” Derek tells him, standing from the couch. He won’t make Stiles take his bed. At least, not tonight. “But you should stay longer. Stay until you figure it out.”

He doesn’t bother clarifying what “it” is, in part because he feels like he’s said enough, mostly because he knows there’s no way to know what “it” is for Stiles.

For him, it was becoming a cop. Learning to help people. Forgiving himself for his family’s death at least enough that he could go on living.

For Stiles, it might be completely different.

“You’re crazy,” Stiles mutters, stretching out along the couch. “Get outta here.”

Derek turns and obeys because it’s not a “no.” Not outright.

Derek has to take that as something.

For tonight, it’s enough.

*^*^*^


End file.
